


The Impossible Cost of Happiness

by Syvaysae



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Aromantic Jo, Asexual Jo, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Initial Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syvaysae/pseuds/Syvaysae
Summary: "I’m sick of being told that love is all a woman is fit for. But... I am so lonely."Jo struggles to reconcile two halves of herself.
Relationships: Friedrich Bhaer/Josephine March, Theodore Laurence/Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March (mentioned)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	1. Feelings Once-Removed

**Author's Note:**

> Jo's breakdown in the attic in the 2019 film brutally attacked me with Ace-Jo feelings, so... this was kind of cathartic for me, I guess? Anyway, enjoy!

Meg, married. Amy, married. Teddy, married. Beth… gone. Marmee? Well, Marmee would always be there, solid and immovable as the earth itself, but was that really her only safe harbour? Must she become a spinster, a homebody, pottering about the world of her childhood until all those who loved her were dead and buried, or moved away? She wanted to see the world! The great castles, the ancient ruins, the innovations of today and tomorrow that even now greater minds than hers were churning out like a wonderful story!

And she wanted to see it all with somebody - somebody all hers and nobody else’s! - by her side.

Teddy would have been a formidable adventuring companion. She would have only just managed to drag him away towards the next wonder before he was pulling her eagerly off to another. He would have listened for hours to spirited recitations of her latest story, chiming in with only congratulatory ‘ _hurrah_!’s as she paced wildly. They would have cavorted madly at social occasions, the subjects of stares and hushed whispers by those who were only envious of their unrestrained friendship. And all those dreams and fantasies for nothing because he was married!

It was humiliating to admit to herself, that the contemplation of a solitary future ached so very much that it felt as though it would rip her heart from her chest. It stung with the sour taste of defeat. She had forever prided herself on her tenacity, on her undaunted individualism. She was always the eleventh-hour hero in her attic revels, and so she would be in her own life! The name ‘Jo March’ would be emblazoned across the memoirs of her existence with no subtitle, no co-author.

Because how else would she survive?

To accept a companion into her life - to accept a _husband_ really, for who else would fill the role? - it meant subservience. It meant clinging to the scraps of her former life as they slipped through her fingers one by one, so gradually she didn’t even notice she was dropping them. The moment another living person became _hers_ , she would, by the simple laws of grammar, become _theirs_. Fading away until she was translucent - a memory of the girl who had once been Jo March. She could not stomach it.

She would not be _his_ in the same way he would be _hers_ \- she knew this for a fact. A husband came with all kinds of unreasonable demands and expectations. Even Teddy, darling Teddy, would want things from her. He would not consider himself unreasonable, of course. He might even see himself as magnanimous in allowing her to forego an obligation or two. But he would want her kisses, her tender affection, and, after marriage, her body and her children.

She had slipped the letter into their shared postbox envisioning a future where she allowed herself to be subject to his affections. His kisses, she reasoned with herself, would not be so terrible. She would close her eyes and endure, and then they would be over, and he would be happy, and she would not be alone. Like plunging a hand into the snow as her fingers ached and froze to search for a dropped glove. A moment’s pain for a greater good.

But it would not be a mere moment’s pain. And as she imagined him moving ever closer, a panther stalking its prey, and the cold bed linens pawing possessively at her back, she knew she would hate him. Perhaps not after the first time, nor even after a month, but give it a year, or two, or three and the humiliation would turn to disgust would turn to loathing and it would seep deep down into her very bones and fester there like so much spoiled flesh. She would snip at him, she knew, pick fights, as revenge for these wrongs. He would avoid her company and hunt down pleasanter girls who would entertain his attention and his fancies. She would make herself more bitter, to encourage him to stray, and then feel jealousy constrict her heart when he eventually did.

And yet she drowned in loneliness! Why was happiness such a very transactional affair?

She smiled for him, of course, when he broke the news, even as these thousand thoughts and emotions battered her insides like rough seas. Smiled and clasped his hand and blessed the union. Pride would not allow anything else of her, and she had always had more than enough to spare of that. She cried only later, locked in the attic with the pages of her manuscripts strewn about her feet as she read through them with scorn.

So much romance littered the writing! Dashing heroes and swooning heroines and dramatic kisses on windswept cliffs. It had all been so vivid as it poured from her mind to the page. She had imagined it, lived it, _loved_ it. Stood in the shoes of the fair Clarissa and bathed in the honeyed words of her Rodrigo. Felt her heart beat faster in her throat as she was clutched to his chest atop castle battlements, having only just been saved from plummeting to her death. Cold stung her cheeks, rain lashed her face, but his kiss burned hotter than fiery suns and she was warm and safe in his arms…

She read into the night, eyes straining against the encroaching darkness, as the candles burned down and guttered again and again. Everything she had ever put to paper she consumed with the fresh eyes of disillusionment, twice or thrice or more. Lies, all of it! Why could she write what she did not feel? Why did she not feel what she so heartrendingly wrote?

It dawned on her slowly, the realisation that she had penned the bloody violence and looming peril in much the same vein. Revelled in it, painted it with that same sheen of romantic unreality. The blood shone a little too bright, the screams rang a little too loud. Hearts beat fast in throats and lightning rent the air, and emotions roiled in breasts with all the turbulence of the sky above.

She did not write from life - she had always been criticised for that, had she not? The romance was as much a lurid fantasy as the violence. A blood-soaked corpse might thrill her in black ink, but should she stumble upon one in the street, she was sure she would promptly be sick. The romances she so voraciously penned were all well and good in the once-removed world of Clarissa and Rodrigo, but were Teddy himself to recite even one of her impassioned soliloquies, she would not bear it. And the swooning! She did not think she would be able to muster a swoon if she tried, and perhaps that was just as well, for she thought it would only leave her feeling silly and embarrassed.

She could not yet tell if this realisation brought contentment, but it certainly brought her temporary peace of mind. She was not a madwoman, with her brain convinced of two entirely contradictory points concurrently. She did not both desire and revile romance at once. That she simply reviled it was a matter to be worked through at a later date. The problem of Teddy was settled. She would not have married him, even if Amy had neglected to. She would be twice as joyful at breakfast tomorrow in voicing her congratulations and prayers for their future wedded bliss.

Sleep came easier that night, and romance and violence danced and blended in her dreams.


	2. Forms of Love

The Professor came to call not weeks following this revelation, and took tea with the whole March clan. He was soon prevailed upon to stay for dinner, taking these invitations with his characteristic reserve, but subsequently endearing himself to the entire family with his offer to help clear the dishes at the end of the meal.

  
She could not deny she was glad to see his face. He was her one wonderful connection to music, art, society and the bustling streets of New York! Pulling him conversationally in every direction, forgiving him his slights against her writing for his very presence, she felt some of the loneliness that had been slowly wrapping its tendrils about her these past few days lift. What delight there was at his being _her_ guest! At making introductions and reminding him of witty anecdotes and nudging him slyly at amusing in-jokes. To be sure he was quiet and reserved with his words and too formal by half for the company, but she never once minded. He grew lovelier even as she looked on him, and appeared an overhanging branch in the bottomless quicksand that had become her existence.

  
“How wonderful it is to have a friend again,” she confided in Meg, as the pair caught a quiet moment alone. “A friend who isn’t family, I mean. Even Teddy has managed to wriggle his way into that particular species now. Christopher Columbus, it seems everyone we meet can’t help but become a March eventually! Not that I don’t adore my family of course, but it is sometimes rather confining.”

  
Meg paused. The silence dragged on just a fraction longer than it should have, which indicated she was very carefully weighing her reply. Somewhat ominously, she took Jo by the arm and bent her head in close.

  
“Professor Bhaer is a very kind man, and good company for you, Jo, but… mightn’t he find his way into our ‘confining’ circle too, soon enough?”

  
The laugh Jo mustered in response was strained. “What do you mean?”

  
“I mean that you might perhaps be more than simply friendly with the dear Professor? Only, you smile and take his arm and praise him so often, I’m sure I am not the only one who has taken notice. Amy will be taking you to task about it soon, just see if she doesn’t.”

  
“Oh, do hush, Meg! The first man who walks in the door and you all push me at him like I’m half a spinster already! We are excellent friends and shall remain so, and there’s nothing more to be said on the matter.”

  
Meg’s voice pitched with indignation. “I’ve seen how you behave around _just friends_ , Jo March! You roughhoused with Teddy like a pair of schoolboys and never once fawned over him and flattered him like you do the Professor.”

  
“I do not _fawn_ , Meg, and never _flatter_!” she sputtered. “I am only grown-up enough to know that romping about on skates and sleds is not for older professors with a taste for the opera!”

  
Meg’s disbelief was written plain across her face, but she did not press the matter further. Evidently, she believed the obvious affection between the pair would resolve itself in due course, and Jo could not think of a single thing to say to persuade her otherwise.

It did resolve itself, despite her best efforts from then on to keep herself to herself, and her words neutral and restrained, the very second the Professor walked out the front door later that evening. Headed for the train station, for California. It was a solemn parting. She took his hand between both her own and wished him every success and happiness in his new life. Perhaps she would see him again. Likely not. The Professor lingered on the threshold, drawing out his farewells past what they ought to have been. But, at last, they parted, the door swung closed, and Friedrich Bhaer disappeared from her life, into the encroaching darkness.

  
Not a moment later, the whole family swarmed her like hornets, their words stinging mercilessly at her until she made concession after painful concession. Yes, she had some small affection for the man. Yes, they got along well together. Yes, she enjoyed his company.

  
“He would not marry me for all the world!” she insisted, time and time again, to wilfully deafened ears.

  
“Of course he would!” Amy interjected vehemently. “He looks at you more adoringly than you do at him, if that is even possible! And you all but said you did not care if he left! Oh, Jo, how could you do such a thing?”

  
“He’ll be better off without me. Better in California. He ought to go, really.”

  
“Are you out of your mind?” Amy exclaimed. “Teddy, fetch the carriage, I’ll hear no more of this nonsense. I’ll never speak to you again, Jo, if you don’t chase him this minute! He looked like a puppy put out in the rain - Teddy, are you listening to me? - and I can’t bear to see it.”

  
“Listen, all of you - !” Her attempts to chime in were trampled over, as if by a stampede of African wildebeests. Teddy ruffled her hair like a little sister’s, and winked familiarly.

  
“You ought to chase him, really,” he said, as he hurried out the door. “One man knows another’s mind. He’d have you in a heartbeat, I know it.”

  
“As if it needed saying!” Amy said, giving her husband a final push over the threshold. “Jo, you must fix your hair, dress warmly and get to the carriage this minute! Meg, find a coat or cloak, will you?”

  
Amy fled to fetch a brush, and Meg a shawl, and Marmee took the small window of opportunity granted to stand at her shoulder, stroking her hair.

  
“Take a moment, my love. Breathe. You look ready to jump out of your skin.”

  
Jo was flushed and near to tears with the commotion of it all, and despite all that Amy had said she still could not say what it was she wanted.

  
“Do I love him, Marmee?” she asked desperately, wanting somebody, just once, to explain to her the enigma that was her own mind.

  
“And how am I supposed to answer that, my sweet Jo?” A smile danced around the corners of her mother’s mouth, but Jo could not find the humour in it all.

  
“I don’t think I know what love is! Everybody says I love Friedrich, but I don’t know if that is true at all, or even _how_ I should know! Teddy married Amy in such haste, they must have simply… _felt_ it, surely?”

  
“Love is hardly something you can know, dear Jo, like you know your geography and history. It is not a science. It cannot be quantified. Amy and Laurie… they share a great love, certainly. A form of it. It is different from what Meg shares with John, and different again from what I share with your father. Nobody can know whether you love the Professor but you.”

  
“ _But_ -“

  
“Find your form of love, Jo,” Marmee interrupted firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument, “however it looks, and never let anybody force you to another.”

  
When Jo leaned into Marmee’s shoulder, she could hear the steady beat of her heart. She could not bear to say what she had to say next looking into her mother’s gentle eyes.

  
“Marmee,” she whispered, “If I never gave you grandchildren, would you be terribly disappointed in me?” She was not expecting the laugh she heard in response.

  
“Oh, my sweet, silly girl! Meg is undertaking to give me grandchildren enough for the whole brood of you. And besides, I have a feeling you will produce a great many darling children, and I shall read and cherish them with all the love in my heart.”


	3. A Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of fluff to round it all out! Thanks to everybody who made it this far!

She was all but thrown from the carriage at the train station, made up nicely, and with freshly-tamed hair, only to have the effect somewhat spoiled by the rain that spilled forth from the clouds in torrents. Pursued by the encouraging shouts of her sisters and Teddy, she fled to the shelter offered by the platform, looking to be warm and dry more than looking for Friedrich. She still had not yet decided what she wanted to say to him, and, in truth, half hoped he had departed already. She would grieve his loss, certainly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it would all be rather better if she never had to look on his face again.

He found her, as it worked out, calling her name from behind as he trudged in from the rain. Feeling her stomach drop into her shoes, she stood as if nailed to the spot as he strode across the platform towards her. She pushed dripping hair from her face with a clumsy hand, puffing words around her breath before he could say more.

“My sisters say we should marry.” It was all she could think of to say. The only true thing, anyway. He returned her blank stare for longer than was comfortable.

“Are they the only ones who say this?”

“Teddy too. And Marmee.” She stared at him earnestly, hoping against hope he could see the meanings of the thoughts that swarmed half-formed in her mind, unknown even to her.

“I see.” He nodded, and took a step back, picking up the briefcase he had dropped in the thrill of the moment. “You may tell them I declined your offer, if you wish.”

In desperation, she reached forwards and grabbed his hands, stopping him dead in his tracks. They were cold in her own.

“I don’t want to marry you,” she said intently. The bemusement and hurt in his eyes told her she was doing a rather poor job of this explanation.

“Or,” she hastily amended, “We could marry, to be proper about it, if you’re worried. But I don’t want to _marry_ you.”

“Perhaps… perhaps you should take a moment, Jo, to decide what it is you are wanting to say to me.” His voice was thick and tentative, as if he were allowing himself to hold onto too much hope by even remaining there with her.

Every thought that rose in her mind would be ridiculous to voice aloud. Insulting, even. So much sacrifice for - _what?_ \- the _pleasure of her company?_ As if she were conceited enough to value that so highly! No, it was not worth the humiliation. She would tell him she wanted nothing more to do with him, and let him continue West to better women than she.

But what could she risk with her proposal? She would end up alone on this platform regardless, watching his train steam off into the impenetrable distance, and if Friedrich at least knew what she felt, perhaps she would not spend her whole life wondering… he was looking at her with such concerned, with his hopeful eyes that…

“Could we travel the world together? Paris and Vienna and Moscow and London? Could we teach together at a village school Could we read aloud in the evenings and go Fridays to the theatre and recite poetry over coffee for supper? Could we be awfully adventurous and terribly domestic, and keep a cosy home with a hundred books and a great mahogany writing desk? Could we keep a spare room for family and visit home for the holidays? Could we…”

“It is a pretty picture you paint, Jo,” he interrupted, gently, “But it sounds to me like marriage, no?” He was visibly confused, but no longer looked so stony. She realised she was out of breath.

“You did not hear the difficult part.” She had got carried away in her own imaginings. She had led him on too far. The betrayal he would feel would be that much worse for it. But she had to keep going. “We would be the best of friends - more, even! I would be your constant companion for as long as we both live, and you mine. But we would not be _married,_ not as the Church would have it. I will not suffer romance. I will have my own room, and keep my dignity as I have always kept it. I will remain an individual within our partnership. You cannot expect children of your blood. Do you understand, now, why this is so difficult for me?”

He did not reply instantly, and she supposed she ought to be grateful that he did not fling her hands away and stalk off in disgust, but somehow it still stung. He took her small hand in his own and led her to a sheltered bench, where they might have some semblance of privacy.

“Forgive me - you find me… ugly?” he asked. “Unpleasant to look on?”

“No! Of course not! You have a sweet face.”

“You would prefer the young Laurence, then? You are… waiting for him?”

“Not at all! Teddy is madly in love with Amy, and I wouldn’t marry him if he wasn’t!”

“Then - forgive me - what is is I have done…?” He looked so painted it tore at her to press the matter, but how could she flee now?

“It has nothing at all to do with you! If I were… ordinary, and my mind worked as I suppose it should… But it is something I suppose peculiar to me, I’m afraid. And something I cannot change.”

“Then you would prefer no touch? No affection? Ever?”

“Ever.” On that point she had no trouble being firm. She would not have him acquiescing now with the hope of persuading her later. “Unless you mean to take my arm for an evening stroll. As you do now.”

“And you are resolved never to have children?”

“I would be happy to raise an orphan or two. I will not bear one.”

To her surprise, he laughed, and made as if to sweep some hair affectionately from her face, before catching himself and pulling his hand back to his side.

“Well. I never presumed you to be conventional, Josephine March. I would be a fool to think that marriage to you would come without conditions. I accept.”

For all her bluster, she had truly not expected this response.

“You are not _serious-“_

“On the contrary, I am very much so. When I thought I would never see you again, Jo, my heart, it cried out for a reason - any small excuse - not to leave your side. And you have given me that and more, all for so small a price.”

“So small…? I know Teddy would never pay it.”

“Mr Laurence is young, and full of life, and concerned with wealth and ostentation and all those pleasures of the world. You and I, Jo… well, we are spirits of another sort.”

“You Oberon and I Puck?” she asked wryly. He could not have made her feel safer beside him if he had tried, gently quoting the Bard at her. Nothing had changed. He did not think her some dreadful creature, some cold block of ice or old apple withering on the vine.

“A more lively Puck I never saw,” he said, “Nor one I so wanted to spend the rest of my days with. Would you do me such an honour, Jo? On whichsoever terms you dictate?”

As a token of their agreement, they exchanged no rings, made now vows, and made no move to kiss or embrace. She merely laid one hand on his coat sleeve, and the pair sat quietly on the station bench, side by side, looking out towards the platform, as though waiting for a train that was some distance off.

“People will ask questions, you know,” she said softly, as they watched the engine that should have carried the Professor west steam away.

“Questions?” Friedrich replied. “Certainly. I have one rather pressing one myself. How was a dreary old German professor so lucky as to be allowed to spend the rest of his life in the company of celebrated author Josephine March?”


End file.
